Why must inspiration be so inconvenient?
It is very irritating to think up great things to write just as you turn out the light and find a snug comfortable position on the bed. You know you have to get up again, turn the light back on and start scribbling, because otherwise all that marvellous witty phrasing is going to fly right out of your brain and tomorrow your head will be as empty as it ever was.
Did I just admit my brain is empty? Uh… em… errr… of course it’s not! It’s got something called Grey Matter inside, right? It couldn’t possibly be empty. Could it?
